THE SUITCASE GLIDES ALONG beside him like a red pet animal. As he walks to the taxi stand, Mr. Watanabe observes the undulating roof of Sendai airport. The rhythm of its curves and the reflections on the glass bring back the images of this same building engulfed by the tsunami. The airport floating amid a sudden sea, transformed into an absurd ocean liner.
The earthquake’s epicenter, he recalls, was located a little over a hundred kilometers from here. He repeats silently the formula, part arithmetic, part nightmare, that hundreds of millions of people all over the planet have had to learn. If a tremor of more than seven on the scale has its epicenter in the sea, there will be a tsunami; the time it takes for the waves to reach the shore is the time you have to run for your life.
He is only a few minutes from the city of Natori. There he can get a car from any of the rental companies. Operating like this, without booking ahead, will allow him to carry out an initial reconnaissance of the area. With the dearth of visitors, he is sure he’ll have no difficulty finding somewhere to stay. As the taxi starts up, so do his doubts. Watanabe wonders whether it was a good idea to improvise this trip to such an extent. Everything that seemed simple before he left home suddenly strikes him as complicated.
On the far side of the desk, the young receptionist eyes him with a look of amazement verging on alarm. His face gives the impression of having just woken up. His left nostril is pierced with some symbol that Mr. Watanabe can’t recognize.
Sorry, he says. I wasn’t expecting any customers this early, or at all, to be honest. The town hasn’t had many visitors recently. My name is Tatsuo, at your service. Are you a journalist?
When he says no, Tatsuo seems even more astonished.
We only see foreigners, says the young man. Journalists and photographers. A photographer, then? (Watanabe shakes his head.) Oh, how strange. The only Japanese people who come here are either soldiers or politicians, you know? Or nuclear technicians. You aren’t a politician, are you? (Watanabe smiles and makes a gesture of denial.) Well, that’s obvious. You’re alone. Politicians go around with bodyguards and all that. They’re unable to take care of themselves. From your appearance, I don’t think you’re an army man, either. And, with all due respect, the nuclear technicians that come here are usually younger.
As they’re alone, the two men continue to chat while they complete the paperwork. For a while now, Tatsuo has been alone in the office. His employers, he explains, insist they maintain a minimum service even if there are no customers. So he and his colleagues do shifts, mostly serving no one. Seemingly desperate to talk, Tatsuo tells Mr. Watanabe that his family are all in Sendai, the largest city in the prefecture, he declares, with a mixture of pride and sorrow, and the place where, for that very reason, most of the tsunami victims are to be found.
Tatsuo asks him if he saw Emperor Akihito’s televised speech. Although Watanabe didn’t pay the slightest attention to the event, he implies that he did. From what he glimpsed in the press, the emperor emphasized the need for national solidarity, the collective spirit, the aikokushin and all that stuff. In other words, epic anesthesia.
All of a sudden, he is assailed by vague fragments of the speech made by the current emperor’s father, Emperor Hirohito, days after the bomb at Nagasaki. If his memory serves him correctly, no such broadcast has ever been made again until this year.
Hasn’t he had this thought before? Mr. Watanabe wonders. Is he turning into one of those old people who repeat themselves without realizing?
When his focus returns to the conversation, Tatsuo is making fun of the dark suits the emperor wears on important occasions. Oddly, he praises the empress’s traditional kimono. Young people nowadays think it’s cool to be conservative.
At least this emperor didn’t fall from the sky like some of the others, says Watanabe, and he has tried to promote peace with our neighbors since he took over.
I don’t know, replies Tatsuo. Possibly. I was born the year after.
According to the young man, some social networks are saying that a passage from the emperor’s televised address might have been censored. Watanabe asks if he knows what the passage referred to. Tatsuo says he doesn’t, but other comments suggest it could be related to the radiation in the worst-affected areas, like the neighboring prefecture. Watanabe thinks that, except for nuclear waste, nothing can remain hidden for long. Lies have changed pace.
He prefers a small car, one he can park anywhere, and which doesn’t stand out. When he fills in the form, he realizes he isn’t sure how many days he wants it for. Odd though it seems, he hasn’t yet decided. In fact, at this moment, he doesn’t feel too sure about anything: why he has flown here, why he wants a car, and where exactly he will go. Before he can arouse suspicion, he rents it for a week.
As a special service, Tatsuo insists on offering him the intermediate model for the same price as the economy one. Given the way things are going, he remarks, he doesn’t think his employers will object to the discount. Watanabe accepts with a slight nod. It’s a Toyota Verso, the youth announces.
At full speed, Tatsuo explains that the Verso has enough space to accommodate four pieces of luggage (but I only have a small red suitcase, Watanabe thinks). A direct fuel injection system (and what might an indirect injection system be like?). An in-line four-cylinder engine (no idea what happens when the cylinders aren’t in line). One hundred and twelve horsepower maximum (why would I want more horses? he wonders, remembering the Olympic rider Hiroshi). And a panoramic sunroof (ah, Watanabe says to himself with a smile, that I like).
After consulting the map Tatsuo gives him, and making a couple of quick searches online, he aims to visit Iwate, Miyagi, and Fukushima, the three most devastated prefectures.
Then he goes and purchases a radiation meter.
Before setting off, Watanabe maps a route and its possible alternatives. He tries to find his bearings by comparing the foldout map with the online ones, which give very different perspectives.
Instinctively, he tends to trust everything he sees in print as if the mere investment in paper, ink, binding, and distribution guaranteed an effort that wouldn’t allow for negligence. What floats on the surface of a screen, by contrast, has the transience of a puddle of water. And yet, on his analog map, Mr. Watanabe keeps coming across slight variances, omissions, and inaccuracies, which the GPS resolves with an ease that makes him feel as astonished as he is grateful.
Almost all the major roads appear to be reopened, although they are not always in a very good state. However, the local roads remain an unknown, a scribble of cracks. Often, the information says one thing and the comments on forums something different. To complicate matters, those comments often contradict one another.
Since there’s no consensus about the precarious portions of his journey, Watanabe relies on his intuition. He will start by heading north on National Route 4. Terrain permitting, he will attempt to turn off onto the secondary roads toward the coastal towns. At that point, he’ll make his way south.
He fires up the Verso, and leaves in a car that isn’t his to a place he doesn’t know.